


He Keeps Me Warm

by talesofthewanderer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Divergence, Future Fic, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, OtaYuri Week, OtaYuri Week 2017, Possible Character Death, otayuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9663344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talesofthewanderer/pseuds/talesofthewanderer
Summary: After his grandfather experiences a near fatal accident, Yuri retreats into an isolated shell. But no matter how hard he tries to push everyone away, Otabek won't abandon him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Otayuri Week Day 3: Childhood/Future

Yuri Plisetsky was alone. 

It wasn't the first time he’d felt like this. He'd been forsaken plenty of times in the past. 

Slender fingers reached up, tracing along invisible lines -- the remains of cuts not deep enough to leave scars but harsh enough to always be felt. These marks were silent warnings, each inducing a memory Yuri would rather forget.

Age 12. He’d fallen twice, once on a sloppy triple axel and once on a salchow. His lackluster performance, which diverged from his signature flawless presentations, wasn’t enough to make up for the aforementioned errors, and his left cheek endured the brutal consequence. Sometimes, Yuri could still hear the harsh sounds of fingernails on skin, could still see the anger, no the _disappointment_ , in his father’s eyes as the older man left one more slap on his face before sending him promptly back to training camp with the words “Repeat this shit and you’ll regret it.”

Breathe, Yuri had told himself then.

_Inhale and forget. Exhale and forget._

He had counted to ten, as if the lingering pain would somehow evanesce with each passing second. And it did. Slowly, the stains disappeared because Grandfather had been there to wash them away.

So, yes, he’d been hurt before, had gone through heaven and hell in less than two decades of life. This time though, he didn’t know if he would be able to recover. 

Because this time, the very man who’d been his remedy was the one with his life on the line.

Yuri stared down at his grandfather’s lifeless body, only a few tubes connecting it to the unforgiving world, and wished, for what must have been the thousandth time, that it could have been him instead. Him taking his grandfather’s place in a show of gratitude, of repayment, for all those years in the past. Surely the world would be better off without an angry feline-obsessed teenager, after all.

Yuri could hear his own heart beating through his chest, loud enough to rival the clangs of the Tuesday-morning construction workers, as they drilled through the earth. His signature “Russia” jacket had already been ruined by dried-up tears, whilst his slender pale hands, normally smooth and soft, grew clammy with sweat. Well, so much for being the renowned epitome of feminine beauty. 

The skater lost track of how much time passed as he sat beside his grandfather’s bed in the stuffy old hospital room. How did he end up here? Perhaps he deserved this brutal treatment, but his grandfather certainly didn’t. As far as Yuri could tell, Grandfather had always been pure and kind and caring, encompassing every bit of love that was missing in his parents. 

“Patients who’ve experienced cardiac arrest often fall into an unconscious state for days, maybe even weeks,” the doctor had said, “Unfortunately, your grandfather is in a coma, and we don’t know when he’ll wake up. If he ever wakes up, that is. 

How dare he. 

How _dare_ he. 

Yuri wanted to punch the doctor for sounding so calm. For spouting out the news in such a collected manner and reducing him to this wretched state in a matter of mere seconds. 

And there it was again, his indignant seventeen year old self taking out its anger on another innocent man. 

It had been two days since he’d gotten the call. The phone had rung twice mid-practice, and Yuri hadn’t realized until he checked his voicemail during water break, almost choking on his drink as he played the message. He’d been out the door in a flash, rushing to hail a cab and pushing past an apprehensive Viktor, flanked by his beloved Katsudon, the latter who’d been training in Saint Petersburg with the Russian squad for a good two years now. 

The pair of lovers had visited him the next day on Thursday morning, but Yuri had made it clear that he wasn’t in the mood for company, sending them away without a second thought. He couldn’t spend a second longer in the presence of the duo, who emanated an untouchable aura of love despite their solemn presence. Maybe they couldn’t help it, but everywhere they went, they glowed like newlyweds, which Yuri supposed they were. In this way, they were a dreadful reminder of what Yuri had never had, of what he might _never_ have. 

As Yuri contemplated his actions, he recognized that he may have been too harsh. Yet the truth was he had neither the strength nor the desire to feel guilty. With a lugubrious sigh, he lay his head down beside his grandfather’s chest, straining his ears to hear the faint heartbeat. Yuri slowed his breathing, matching the pace of his own heart to his grandfather’s. He allowed his mind to wander.

 _You should’ve been there._

Well, at least I’m here now. 

_But that’s not enough is it?_

No, not enough. Nothing he did was ever enough. 

 

* * *

 

Yuri Plisetsky didn’t exactly have a long list of friends, and over the course of the past two days, he’d managed to push everyone close to him away. And thus, when Yakov called together an informal meeting to discuss the situation, the Russian squad was stumped.

“I just don’t know what to do, anymore. He hasn’t responded to texts, and we all know what happened when Yuuri and I tried to visit him,” Viktor lamented, clearly exasperated. Yuuri placed a comforting hand on his lover’s shoulder, yet the Japanese skater wasn’t faring too well himself, his anxiety creeping up without welcome.

An uncomfortable silence passed over the group, until Georgi finally spoke.

“Let’s set him up on a date of sorts,” Popovich suggested, receiving an eye-roll from Mila and a glare from Yakov.

“I’m serious, he’s at that age now, when he should be out having fun, going on dates with pretty girls. Or boys, for that matter,” Georgi grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “La Romance is a powerful drug, one that woke me out of my prolonged infatuation with Anya. Surely its deep powers will lure our poor Yuratchka out of that stuffy old hospital room and-”

Mila cut Georgi off before he could continue. When the love-crazed man went off a tangent, he could drone on for hours. Even now, he seemed to want to say more.

“I agree with you on that,” she remarked, “He definitely needs to get some fresh air. But no, we’re not setting him up on an impromptu date.” 

With that, Mila shot a pointed look at Georgi, before propping up her chin with her hand. “So ... how exactly are we going to coax him away from his grandfather, when his first instinct is to shut us out?”

Yuuri, who’d been silent throughout most of the day’s exchange, felt his heart ache deeply as he recalled how inconsolable the younger Yuri had been the prior day during his and Viktor’s brief visit. Russia’s beloved ice tiger had been reduced to a wretched, solemn state, much like a kitten that had been kicked and left on the streets to suffer. Alone and broken, he had withdrawn himself from the world. Something in the younger man’s demeanor told Yuuri this wasn’t the first time. 

The Japanese skater recognized an emergency when he saw one. As a man who struggled with mental health himself, he had a good understanding of what Yuri might need. After slowly considering the possible courses of action, Yuuri voiced his suggestion aloud. 

“There might be someone we can call.”

All eyes shifted onto his.

 

* * *

 

Yuri awoke to the ear-splitting sound of an alarm. 

The doctor from before frantically rushed in, while a young nurse escorted Yuri out of the hospital room. Apparently, the monitors tracking patient health detected a major change in his grandfather’s heart rate, and they needed to stabilize him as soon as possible. Things weren’t looking good, and Yuri likely wouldn’t be able to see his grandfather again for hours.  
Outside of the room, Yuri began to pace back and forth impatiently, not bothering to hide his distress.

The nurse noticed and approached him cautiously. “Yuri, wasn’t it? It seems that you haven’t eaten all day.” she said gently. “The food court is right downstairs. I could have someone show you the way, if you’d like.”

“I’m fine,” the skater grunted out in response, before returning to his incessant pacing. His tone wasn’t exactly inviting, and he failed to make eye contact when he responded to the nurse’s offer. 

“Well, we can’t have you loitering around in the hallway like this,” she told him. “I’d suggest that you return home for the night, but it doesn’t seem like that’s something you want to do. So please, at least take a seat in the waiting room, and I promise we’ll update you with more information as soon as possible. You’ll be the first to know of any changes.”

Surprisingly, the skater complied. His grandfather’s accident had sucked the life out of him, and the man, once fierce and defiant, lacked the energy to argue against the nurse’s wishes. 

He trudged down the other side of the hall to the elevator, stepped in, and pressed the button to go down. 

_Down._

It felt like that was the only direction he ever went. 

After what seemed like hours, Yuri heard the familiar ding, the signal that he had reached his destination. Ignoring his surroundings, he stepped out of the cramped elevator and walked straight forward, smack dab into the chest of another man. 

The Russian fought the urge to let out a few profanities but couldn’t restrain his blush, which was now creeping up due to embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, backing his face away from the sturdy chest that had taken a great portion of the collision’s impact.

Huh. That black scarf looked impossibly familiar, as if it belonged to a certain man Yuri had grown increasingly close to over the past few years. He’d recognize that smooth fabric anywhere. 

Yuri looked up skeptically at man he’d crashed into.

No, there was no way. It couldn’t be. They weren’t supposed to see each until the ISU Challenger Series four months later. _They weren’t supposed to see each other when Yuri was such a sorry mess._

But there he was. Otabek Altin. One handsome, perfect Otabek Altin, staring back at him unabashedly. Yuri blinked his eyes in disbelief.

Seconds passed.

“Yura,” the Kazakh skater breathed.

“Otabek?” Yuri gasped out, wondering if maybe he was going crazy and seeing things that weren’t really there. 

When the older man spoke again, Yuri knew he for sure he wasn’t dreaming. 

“Yura. God, Yura, I’m so sorry,” Otabek apologized, for what the younger of the two didn’t know. 

“Sorry?” the Russian questioned. “Why would you be sorry?” 

“I wanted to be here sooner. I should’ve known something was up when you stopped sending messages.” 

Otabek explained that he would’ve gotten here the day prior, had Yakov called him then. The Russian squad hadn’t wanted to tear him away from his training, especially during such a crucial season. Still, he’d dropped everything and hopped on the first flight to St. Petersburg, his relationship with Yuri mattering far more to him than a few practices. 

“I’m assuming they told you everything that happened, then?” Yuri inquired.

Otabek nodded in response.

“And you seriously care that much?”

Another nod. 

Without warning, the Kazakh skater grabbed hold of the Russian’s arm, guiding him steadily outside the hospital to a rented motorcycle. The bike was neatly parked, although not as sleek as the one Yuri was accustomed to seeing his best friend ride. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Yuri interrogated. 

When Otabek ignored his question and continued dragging him toward the bike, Yuri pulled away his hand.

“I’m a real mess, right now, I know,” Yuri admitted. “But that’s not _your_ problem, so why are you doing this?” 

He turned away then, speaking in a dejected tone, more to himself than to the man beside him. “Why don’t you just leave me be? I’m not worth your time.”

Otabek paused. He knew things were bad, but not that they were _this_ bad. 

“Yura … I know you don’t want to be away from your grandfather, but I’m sure a bit of fresh air won’t hurt,” he surmised. “Maybe you’re not in the mood for company, but surely my presence is less off-putting than the that of dozens of depressed people in the waiting room.”

That much was certainly true. If there was anyone Yuri would willingly be around, it was his best friend, the man who’d loved him unconditionally and without expectation of compensation.

“Why don’t you take a ride with me, hm?” the older man proposed, leaning back on his bike and waiting for the younger’s response. 

Yuri bit his lip, still unsure.

“Hey.” The Kazakh held out his hand. “Are you going to rely on me or not?”

So Otabek was still Otabek.

Yuri almost smiled, before remembering who and where he was.

His life was in shambles, but his best friend was as blunt as ever, as if the distance between them was as thin as a rake. 

With a resounding sigh, Yuri took Otabek’s outstretched hand, which helped him up onto the back of the rented motorcycle. Otabek swung his leg over the bike, and plugged in the key. The engine roared to life, and before Yuri knew it, they were riding. Out of the parking lot and onto the streets and through winding paved roads. 

Yuri had forgotten these feelings. Of freedom after captivity. Of sentience after indifference. Of being present in the moment after losing too much track of time. 

Yes, these were good feelings. 

Yuri felt the wind blow his golden locks through the air, ruffling them up even further than before. How that was possible the Russian didn’t know. He closed his eyes and raised his arms up like a bird, before letting them rest around Otabek’s muscular back. He didn’t know where he was being taken, but he felt safe with the other man.

Twenty minutes later, the pair arrived at their destination. It turned out Yakov had set Otabek up in a small airbnb, not knowing how long the skater’s visit would be.

The two stepped through the door, kicking off their shoes, while fighting off shivers that resulted from being in the icy open for so long. The Kazakh shrugged off his signature scarf and coat, before turning to Yuri. “Why don’t you make yourself at home? I didn’t get a good chance to check out the place, but there’s television in the living room and some novels on the bookshelves.”

“If you need me, just call, okay?” Otabek said, before disappearing into the kitchen. It was getting late and he needed to prepare dinner. He could have easily ordered take out, but something told him the Russian skater would much prefer a warm, home-cooked meal. 

Yuri scanned his surroundings. The place was a definitely a bit small, but Yuri supposed Otabek liked things that way. Clean. Compact. Room enough for one. 

He hummed in response to the other skater’s comments before making his way to the mentioned living room, flopping himself down onto the leather couch. 

The ride had helped to calm Yuri’s nerves, but he was still anxious as hell. What if his grandfather’s condition was worsening at this very moment? What if the old man never woke up?

 

* * *

 

“Yura,” Otabek whispered. He gave the younger man a shake, yet received no response. 

He tried again. “Yura.”

“Huh?” Yuri mumbled groggily, sitting up from his spot on the couch. While Otabek was busying himself in the kitchen, Yuri had fallen into a much needed sleep, and the Kazakh had been careful not to rouse him earlier.

“Morning. Well, it’s not really morning, but you get what I mean.” Otabek smiled lightly. “I figured you were hungry, so I made you something to eat.” 

He tilted his head toward the dining room, motioning for the other man to follow him in.

Yuri, still half asleep, could barely open his eyes. He shook the sleepiness away with a few rough jerks of his head, and followed his friend into the dining room. 

There, on a large wooden table, sat a large steaming plate of Yuri’s favorite food. 

Piroshki. The delicious dish grandfather had always prepared for Yuri when the skater was feeling down. 

A familiar aroma wafted into the air and smelled, unmistakingly, like home. The baked buns were burnt at the edges, and if grandfather were there, he would have scoffed at their unruly shape, likely the result of a lack of practice rolling the dough. Yet Yuri felt his emotions begin to overwhelm him, as he took his seat at the table.

“This was my first time making piroshki,” Otabek admitted. “They didn’t really turn out right, and I won’t blame you if you don’t want them. We can always just order takeout instead of-”

“Otabek,” the younger skater interjected, “They’re more than perfect.”

He meant every word.

No one besides grandfather had ever done anything like this for Yuri: befriended him; flown 2,800 miles to just to see him; spent another two hours preparing him his favorite meal. 

No one had ever cared this much. 

Yuri picked up one of the crisp warm piroshkis, and placed it close to his mouth, taking a small bite.

Then came the tears. Tears everywhere. They were cascading from his eyes and from his heart, spilling onto the floor in loud, angry drips. There was no blinking them back now, not when Yuri’s emotions were betraying him like this. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuri muttered, placing the piroshki down before wiping furiously at his face, “that you had to see me like this.”

Otabek momentarily frowned at the younger boy’s lack of self-regard. To his fans, heck even to the people he trained with every day, Yuri seemed confident in his abilities, to the extent that he sometimes came off as arrogant. But Otabek knew better. He saw past such charades, saw how much it pained the Russian to keep all his sadness inside.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” the Kazakh asked, not waiting for a reply. “Friends are honest with each other, so I’m going to be honest with you.” 

“Do you remember the day we first met, back in Barcelona? That was almost three years ago. I admired you so much back then, and I still do, really.” As he spoke, he tilted Yuri’s chin up with his hand, partly wanting to make sure the man was listening and partly wanting to see those beautiful emerald eyes. All he saw was grief. 

Otabek shifted into a more comfortable position before continuing. “That day, I told you that you had the eyes of a soldier. I meant it. You were so young and so skilled and so beautiful. I could see the determination in your eyes, and believe me, I would have dropped everything back then to perform with such devotion.” 

Otabek paused for a second, realizing that he’d never spoken quite so much in one sitting, to anyone really. Yuri had always been the loquacious one, putting himself out there whilst he himself had prefered to watch casually from the background. Regardless of his more stoic nature, Otabek let his words flow freely. “You are a soldier, Yura, but even soldiers are forced to feel vulnerable at times. Mourning is cleansing, not weakness. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Not when you’ve made it so far.”

Otabek’s strong arms wrapped around Yuri in conclusion, the older man shifting to let the younger lean on his chest. Yuri peered through damp glassy eyes at the sturdy Kazakh hero, at _his_ Kazakh hero, as if truly seeing the man for the first time. He wondered how it was that he ever thought he was alone. 

“It’s still embarrassing,” Yuri replied shakily, yet nevertheless allowed himself to lean into his friend’s welcome embrace.

_Saved again._

Tears were still falling from the younger skater’s eyes, like wingless angels plummeting down to the earth. Yet he allowed himself to be held, to come undone. Maybe time could stand still, if only for a second, showing mercy on a boy who had lost too much and loved too little.

At that moment, Yuri drank in the warmth of the human flesh pressed against his skin, the simple yet satisfying comfort of presence. He could hear his friend begin to whisper again, as he weaved his long fingers through the Russian’s golden tresses.

Otabek’s murmurs were incoherent, muffled by the sound of strangled sobs. Perhaps they were words of reassurance or promises of a better tomorrow.

But Yuri didn't need to hear them. He just needed to know he didn't always have to be strong, bearing the world on bony shoulders and under expectations of perfection. He just needed someone to _be there._

And Otabek was.

**Author's Note:**

> And, voila! We come full circle ;) 
> 
> First of all, I’d like to thank you all for reading my first fanfic! It really means a lot. 
> 
> I know I never disclosed what happened to Yuri’s grandfather, although I think I’ll leave that up to you to decide, as the focus of this piece remains primarily on the relationship between Yuri and Otabek and on the comfort they bring into each other’s lives. 
> 
> As this is my first ever fanfic, feedback would be greatly appreciated. I’d love to hear what you all think in the comments, and you can always find me on tumblr @otaku-on-ice.
> 
> Much Love,  
> Aly


End file.
